


As Bad as the Boys

by rosenasty



Category: No More Heroes (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Sylvia Christel, F/F, Lesbian Jeane, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Open Marriage, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2021-04-08
Packaged: 2021-04-19 21:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21931504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosenasty/pseuds/rosenasty
Summary: Just because you're going to die doesn't mean you don't get to love before it happens. Can't you just kiss a girl before you get sliced to bits?A collection of one shots featuring gay relationships between the female assassins and other female characters in the series. AU in a few parts to ensure every girl gets some love.
Relationships: Bad Girl/Shinobu Jacobs, Cloe Walsh/Margaret Moonlight, Jeane/Holly Summers
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	1. met her in the summer (jeane/holly summers)

Their creator had a twisted sense of humor. Having an albino person be born in a desert city by the beach? Where summer was nearly the whole year except for a few months? With over 100 degrees of heat bearing down on her skin, all she could think was “Fuck that.” There was no point to going outside during the day except when she absolutely had to. At sunset was when she could go out, or close to approaching it.

_No one_ wanted to be out after dark, unless you had a death wish or something approaching it. The thought squeezes in between regular worry and annoyance as she slips on a pair of sunglasses and tucks her hair under a baseball cap. Everything about her was a sore thumb; a freckled, red-eyed thumb. In a city where she might as well be hunted by everyone at every corner, there was solace in going out and blending in among the faceless NPCs. Still, she had to go out eventually.

Body Slam Beach was a harsh place during the day, but when the sun started to set, it was beautiful even with the amount of landmines. Being able to move at mach speeds was an advantage, especially in sandy conditions. Even _she_ of all people isn’t foolish enough to go barefoot on the sand, still warm from the sun even as it starts to descend. Somewhere, land mines tick under the surface, waiting for an unfortunate person to activate them. 

Catching sight of a photography crew wrapping up, she wonders if the landmines are even active today. It hadn’t been her first time seeing them there, but she was curious enough to try and find out what their subject was. Her feet are feather light on the sand, leaving the most shallow impressions as she reaches their set up site. Nothing prepared her for coming face to face with their model. When you wanted to catch a glimpse of stunning girls in swimsuits in Santa Destroy, you usually had to do so during the day. Lucky for her, so far, she only had to be nosy enough to see one.

Seated on a beach chair, the woman in front of her sips at a bottle of water held for her by an assistant while her fake nails are removed. So cliche, she’s entranced by her mere presence. There is something familiar about her and at once she recognizes she isn’t an NPC. She’s woken from her stupor when fingers snap in her face. It takes everything in her to not break those fingers like twigs immediately.

“Miss Summers asked you a question.” The owner of the fingers snaps, yet again. He seems to be angry at her for whatever reason. How annoying.

“Sorry. What is it?” There isn’t anything making her stay there. Why should she even answer, besides her own decision to be polite to them both?

“Don’t mind him.” She has an accent and pushes down her sunglasses when she talks. “I asked if you were a local. Please, sit.” Her now free hand gestured to the foot of her lounge chair. Without thinking, Jeane plops down immediately, making the chair raise before it adjusts to the new weight. The woman laughs, while her assistant seems ready to scold her. “Franz, it’s alright. Leave us.” She waves a hand at him, not even bothering to look in his direction.

Something about that makes the blonde’s lower stomach tighten and sudden warmth rush up her neck. Somehow, she doesn’t notice when the man leaves. Her eyes are only on this bikini-clad woman. Only with the silence does she notice she still hasn’t answered her. “Oh, Jesus Christ. I mean, yes. I am a native. Why do you ask?”

Now with the assistant gone, she’s much too aware of the woman’s gaze on her. It’s not a crawling feeling like she gets with her customers or just walking around the city. Her eyes are almost teasing, while the rest of her face remains calm. The wink is even subtle and she doesn’t even notice herself jump until she laughs again.

“Usually people know who haven’t reacted to seeing me here yet have just arrived, or they already know of me and are not surprised.” Her hand rests on Jeane’s thigh, and the muscle under the skin stiffens. Not out of fear or surprise, never that, but anxiety? Nervousness? She can’t place it herself. “Yet... I have no idea who you are. Or if I even should.”

“There's a reason for that. I technically don’t exist.” That much is true, though she isn’t proud of the fact as much as made her peace with it. She pushes up her own sunglasses. “I’m no one to this city, even if I’ve existed here all my life. You shouldn’t worry about it, Summers.”

“I’d prefer you call me Holly.” Leaning in to inspect Jeane’s face, her nose scrunches slightly in what she guesses is frustration or concentration. Either way, she wants to bite it. It’s too cute of a reaction to ignore. When she’s measuring the consequences of doing so, Holly leans back just out of reach. “But I can tell you’re not lying. You don’t give off the air of someone who would.”

“Oh, I don’t? How do you know?” If she were to say something wrong, this whole visit would turn out to be a bad idea. Things would turn south for Miss Summers fast. “What is my ‘air’?”

“A bud that has risen from the blistering concrete and grown. Watered not by water but your own sweat and tears, growing and seeking the true sun. Expanding and unfurling your vines, nearly overtaking it and all those who deserve to be overtaken.” A small smile overtakes her lips. “You’re not for this place. You should leave while you can, but something holds you here. Tell me who you are.”

It’s a command, not a question and she doesn’t take to those well. “You’re surprisingly astute for someone who’s only known me for a few minutes. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Even if that's true, though she hates saying it. It’s so cliche of her. This woman is fun as she is strangely cryptic and commanding. Her own hand moves this time, to Holly’s arm. She feels too out of place to move it where she’d actually like to. “I’d hate to kill you, you know. The afterlife doesn’t need you just yet. I can tell.”

“Then I look forward to you telling me now. You may try and kill me when my business here is done.” It's finality, as if she knows it isn’t her time just yet. “There’s much we both must do first, I feel. Neither of us will be satisfied if we rush.”

“Maybe you can give me a taste of satisfaction. Just to stave off your death until then.” Rising slightly, she moves forward to Holly. Leaning down within breathing distance. “If you don’t want to, just say the word.”

“I’m afraid just a taste won’t satisfy either of us. We both know that.” Holly’s smile is harder now, but Jeane can feel metal against her back pushing her towards her. Her prosthetic leg, rather than the familiarity of a gun. The coolness is welcome on her hot back, feeling it even through the fabric of her shirt. “I would enjoy your embrace all the same. Don’t be scared.”

“I know. But I’m not scared.” Even as her lips meet hers, the thought keeps crossing her mind. The sun is hot, her new lover’s leg is cool, and she is _terrified_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a serious lack of wlw relationships at all in the fandom and I hope that this gets the ball rolling for more of it. I'm also just super stoked to finally be writing all the ships I've thought about before but have no real presence in the fandom!
> 
> Jeane/Holly is something I've thought about a few times before, mostly since they're both pretty cryptic and serious fighters. They'd have a lot to talk about regarding death and battle, and maybe Holly can wax academic while they cuddle.


	2. maybe the heat just got me blind (bad girl/shinobu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shinobu thinks Bad Girl may not have come back completely human and just wants to make sure.

There’s no real excuse for her sitting at the campfire. The mosquitos have made a meal of her arms and back, even with the smoke. Her mast— _Travis_ has retired to his trailer for the night along with his monstrosity of a pet cat. Yet, she finds herself staring at the blonde across from her. Maybe the thing that bothers her the most is that she looks _almost_ exactly the same as she did eleven years ago.  
  


When she was ranked eighth and barely an adult, she would see the famous second ranked around the city at times. Across the street when she walked to school, in the supermarket when she picked up groceries for her mother, or even at the dry cleaner when she picked up her mother’s clothes if she had a class that ran late. A reminder that her future opponent was a_ person _ and not some monster in a basement like some of the other assassins liked to tease her as. Some joking, others not so much. It didn’t bother her at the time. Everyone died the same when she faced them. Now, she wasn’t so sure.  
  


Here was a person that had come back from death and didn’t look any different or sound any different. She didn’t even act any differently. Certainly no asking for brains to consume or attacking any of them for it, like in that famous San Romero incident. She had come back completely normal, right? Squinting at her didn’t reveal any flaws that weren’t as apparent when she had first seen her again, but—  
  


“Jacobs, I’m going to give you somethin’ to _ really _ stare at if you don’t knock that shit out.” Bad Girl had stopped practicing smoke rings to snap at her. “Now, what the fuck are you lookin’ at me so hard for? You act like I grew a motherfuckin’ second head or some weird shit.”

“Just seeing if it was late coming in.” Half a joke. Who knows with these people? “I was just thinking, you don’t look any different after you came back. Your clothes changed obviously, but did anything else? You could be a very convincing zombie for all we know.”  
  


This earns a barking laugh from Bad Girl, who isn’t too shy about showing it. “Are you fucking serious? I got resurrected by a shitty tiger god like, twice. It wasn’t the best at it, _ obviously _ , but it got it right the second time. Lucky for it or I’d kick its shit in. Fucking bitch.” She rubs her face with her gloved hands, amazing Shinobu when she doesn’t smudge her makeup. “Anyway, doesn’t matter if I was still dead or not. My old man got his wish or whatever the fuck. _ That’s _ what matters.” She rolls her eyes.  
  


“Is that how it really works? They collect video games and a god resurrects you?” Of course it did. Why else would Travis be in possession of such an item, besides to just play games on it? All gamers were the same after all, as she learned the hard way. “That seems too easy. But, if you _ were _ dead, your father wouldn’t notice?”  
  


“Nah. I’ve been dead ten fuckin’ years. We didn’t see each other for like, five before that. I dunno why he cares so fucking much suddenly. He wouldn’t know what I looked like besides in pictures, I bet.” She sticks her tongue out before blowing a ring of smoke straight at her. It gets caught in the campfire’s smoke and intermingles with it. “Kind of fuckin’ depressing, but c’est la vie. I wasn’t expecting shit after being dead for so long, so I guess this is kinda a perk.” Her sleeved shoulders shrug before she puts her attention on Shinobu again. “But what you’re really askin’ for is proof, right? That I’m not dead or what the fuck ever?”  
  


“Sure. Let’s go with that.” She straightens up in her seat, almost wishing she hadn’t when Bad Girl rises from her log to saunter over to her side of the fire. “What are you going to do?”  
  
“Nothin’.” It doesn’t feel like it. Still, she lets her approach her, keeping her hands in her lap. Besides in the trailer when trying to watch television, they haven’t even sat close before. It’s not that they never _ wanted _ to. She had, at least. Her arm twitches. Childishly, she thinks, she wants to close her eyes when she sees her getting closer. Willing them to stay open, she watches Bad Girl take off her gloves. It’s something she’s never seen before, but she’s relieved to see them be normal. A warm tan with small scars and calluses. Her nails are short, but even they’re a pearly pink. Watching, one of her hands rises to Shinobu’s face to cup her cheek. It’s warm.  
  


“I’m human just like you, idiot. Just ‘cause I died, doesn’t mean shit, got it? I’m as real as you are.” It’s edged with teasing. Her thumb presses into the flesh of her cheek and drags down to the corner of her mouth. “Or do I gotta show you some other way?”   
  


“I wouldn’t be opposed to it.” How could she be? Even undead, her chest was nearly in her face and she could feel her breath on her cheeks. Hot bubblegum and cigarettes. It’s all she could smell. “But if you want to fight me to prove it instead, I’m not going easy on you just because you’re _ cute _.”  
  


“You know I could still take you, anyway!” Bad Girl giggles and hooks her thumb in between Shinobu’s lips and _ pulls _ her by her cheek to crush their lips together. It’s messy and unexpected and she thinks she tastes blood. After they pull apart, she thinks it’s probably her own. She watches the blonde suck her thumb off, the blood and spit disappearing between her pink, pink lips.  
  


“So, where do you want to go?” As if they have anywhere else to go in the middle of the Texan woods miles from the nearest motel. There was her master’s trailer, but…  
  


“If you even think of fucking me in that otaku disaster’s goddamn neckbeard nest, I’ll gut you right here.” Even thinking of it like that made her dry up a little. “But… Well, fuck!” She looked around for their fellow campers, one likely in the trailer considering the lit window and the other wandered off, likely. “Fuckface is probably jerking off and dad’s probably off taking a leak. So.”  
  


“So?” Shinobu rose from her stump as she watched Bad Girl whip around and yank open the passenger door of her father’s car. “Oh. Got it. But isn’t the front kind of—”  
  
“There’s no back doors, Jacobs. Just get the fuck in.” Bad Girl shoves the front seat forward and squeezes in behind it to the spacious backseat. Empty beer cans are thrown out after her onto the ground. “Ugh, fucking pig! Get back here already before I get fucking _ dry _. Jesus.”  
  


After her own look around the campsite, she follows in after the former second rank, landing nearly on top of her when she squeezes in. It’s a soft landing on top of her curves and breasts and being between them feels as if she’s in her own personal heaven. Never would she want to leave this feeling, even closing the car door behind them with her foot.  
  


“Wow. How flexible are you, Jacobs?” Her voice comes from somewhere above her, but she only feels her hands reaching between them and then under her. _ No gloves _, she notes, feeling the calloused pads of her fingers slip under the shorter leg of her pants directly to her folds.  
  


“I… do yoga.” She tries not to dwell on her own pleasure, trying not to grind down too hard on her fingers. In the dark of the car, she can find Bad Girl’s panties easily enough under the pleather of her skirt and apron. They feel like lace and she tries not to rip them in her haste. Her teeth rip off her own gloves and waste no time in sinking her fingers inside of her. Bad Girl is so _ warm _ and _ wet _and she can feel her muscle pulsing around her fingers. But she can’t stop there. She slips her fingers into her mouth, tasting the slick of her. Her taste is decidedly alive and good, and maybe she just wants more of it.  
  


Somewhere above her again, Bad Girl is giggling as her fingers leave Shinobu and she lets herself be pushed against the car door with her thighs raised. “I told ya I wasn’t a fucking zombie, didn’t I? You wouldn’t get enough of this pussy otherwise, would ya?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Girls need to have fun too at the machismo bullshit campsite!
> 
> They had to have been fucking while they were all at camp at least once, I swear. What else is there to do besides fight, eat, play video games and catch up?


	3. fingers through her hair (margaret/cloe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret searches for a real paranormal experience and the abandoned prison island seems like a good place to look.
> 
> Warning for body horror

Her interest in the occult had been a given, being a goth. From her teens onward, she had researched, watched movies and documented her experiences with the paranormal, comparing them to those of her peers. Ghosts were common in a city like Santa Destroy. You could always disturb a grave, given that anyone died anywhere without any proper funeral rites. Their final resting place being the graveyard beyond city limits or a mass grave for worthless goons and NPCs, but their spirits lingered. Of course she wasn’t scared. Why would the Reaper be scared of a pathetic ghost that couldn’t even possess a _rat_? Secretly, Margaret longed for a more tangible experience. A way to encounter the paranormal and come close enough to death itself, but escape unscathed. She longed for something more _physical_. And for that, you had to go elsewhere.

The most recent Akashic Point documented on sites like _Destroy Unsolved_ only spoke of the urban legend of a woman’s cries filling the air at night. Her sorrowful wailing driving the sea birds to death, drowning themselves when their small bodies encounter the sound. No one had entered the Akashic Point at night, finding the island to be heavily guarded then with buildings crawling with armed guards. Yet, during the sunniest days, the island was in ruins, no one to be found. The occult fan in her was intrigued, yet some part of her was saddened. What sort of creature could be in such pain as to drive other creatures to death just with its voice? Even she wasn’t _so_ naive as to think it couldn’t be some sort of ploy to attract prey. There were only two reasons for armed guards, to keep the creature safe or to keep it from hurting others. Either way, she _would not_ be stopped from her investigation of the island.

Raising her head from her sights, Margaret furrowed her pale brows. For a place feared by so many, she was honestly expecting more of a challenge. Picking off the guards from afar was like squishing ants. Disgustingly easy with no real threat. Sighing, she packed up her rifles and dropped down from her hiding place. There was no one around to stop her, so she took her time stepping over bodies still bleeding out and releasing their contents onto the concrete. A necessary mess she ignored. She had a larger concern and she shouldn’t be bothered by every little obstacle that pops up. Her blocky heels clip on concrete, trying not to hurry. Hurrying would take the magic out of everything wouldn’t it?

Somehow, she doesn’t need to worry about time. It feels like only seconds has passed before she stands in front of the most guarded containment cell she’s seen. Lasers, suspended feet above the floor and wrapped in chains. She’s sure the woman is unconscious at first.

“Oh, you poor thing…” Margaret frowns in worry. Who would do something like this to a woman? Of course she knows looks can be deceiving. She’s living proof of that herself. But all this… _bondage_ just seems like overkill! Really, couldn’t they find something less out of some power hungry, small dicked man’s fantasy? The poor dear even looked like she wasn’t wearing much. How _impractical_.

Sighing, she plants herself by the control panel. Whoever had designed it had made the containment cell controls easy enough for just _anyone_ to tamper with them. Only an idiot would think it was too complex and go for the containment cell itself. Rolling her eyes, she found her sight drawn to the woman again. Her mind raced with questions. Even if this mysterious woman wasn’t the infamous banshee, what was she doing here? Why was she locked up so tightly? Why were there no guards in her cell itself? Inwardly, she curses herself for not bringing a camera crew with her or at least _one_ cameraman. Not even to post on her DestroyTube account, just for her own personal occult collection.  
“Miss, I do hope you forgive my intrusion.” She paused, hefting her rifle up to the console and pointing it at the chamber. No one could call her unprepared. “But I do feel you are quite interesting, considering all the mystery surrounding you and this island. I would like to have a chat, if you’re willing. I’ll release you, but I’m warning you I’m _no_ pussy.” 

Her black manicured finger presses the release button. Boredly, she watches the laser grid power down and the pressure release from the containment cell with a hiss, fog rolling out and surrounding the immediate area. Silently, Margaret puts her eye to the sight on her rifle and waits. Luckily, she didn’t have to wait long. The clanking of metal alerts her to the many chains wrapped around the woman falling to the ground. She contemplated a warning shot to drive her point further, but when she searches for the woman, she can’t find her in the sights.

“Shit,” she muttered, lifting her head. 

The fog was dissipating and there’s an absence of a body on the ground or even a figure rising from it. Instead, she’s treated to a presence behind her. In a move she’ll berate herself for later, she removes her face completely from her rifle’s sights and turns to face the woman she freed. How _completely_ like a horror movie extra of her! In the gloom, the other’s pale skin seems to be glowing. Easy enough to see with how revealing her outfit is. It’s questionable if you could call a fishnet body stocking over lingerie an outfit in the first place, but she’s not _exactly_ complaining.

“Little girl.” The woman’s voice conjured images of bloodsucking countesses in long, dark gowns. “You seeked me out. You want to speak to me?”

“Yes.” Nothing witty came to her mind. Not that she thought anything would when she was faced with a literal entity of the night. “I wanted to… I want to know why you’re here.” Simple enough. No one could fault her, right?

A laugh rang in her ears. Except for _her_, of course. “To the _meat_ of it, hm? You aren’t so naive. Come.”

Margaret watched the other woman’s platforms _swish_ against the ground. Everything about her seemed like it should be loud, but she was as quiet as the breeze that found her somehow in the compound. Fluttering through her petticoats as she followed her closely to a section of the same floor where the foundation had eroded away. It made a sort of natural balcony, where the woman proceeded to sit, unceremoniously plopping herself down. Taken as an invitation, she gently sat herself beside her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt as if she should have ran. But then she wouldn’t have anything to show for his encounter would she? She wouldn’t even have bragging rights if she turned tail when her back was turned, like some goddamn pussy.

“Little scary girl wants to know about me,” the redhead mused aloud. “Why shouldn’t I just kill you here and now?”

“Why would you want to? You could have done it already back there if you wanted.” She knew that much. You were a damn idiot if you came to an entity like her and lorded your pitiful, human self over her. 

“I don’t.” She smirked at Margaret. “But I know who you are and what you are. Assassin.” In a moment, she felt her long nails raked through her hair. How did she get it back there? She might as well have no eyes with how this woman moved. “Fourth. Will you use this in one of your songs? Will you boast about how you beat the harpy, the siren, the _bitch_ that was locked away in a cage?”

“No.” A pull at her hair. “I wouldn’t. I only do that to my opponents that think they’re… hot shit. That they think they’re above everyone just for _existing_. Arrogant. Rarely, if ever, does a woman do that. Anyone who’s not a man.” Not in this tourney, at least those who didn’t want the other fifty. It felt like there were more women and non-men in their niches thriving, who didn’t need to resort to tactics like that. Otherwise, she’d be able to make an entire _album_ of diss tracks at this rate.

“You sound arrogant yourself.” The pulls at her scalp lessened. “But at fourth it might be deserved. So I will let you keep that arrogance. For now.”

“Thank you.” For now? “I don’t ask you to trust me, but I’d still like to talk to you.”

“You are, aren’t you?” In the corner of her eye, she saw those sharp nails, those _talons_ raise a lock of her own blonde hair to her pale face. Between her multicolored nails, her hair looks like it doesn’t even belong to her. More like a doll’s, it’s so glossy and fine. She almost wishes it wasn’t her hair between those nails. “So your question. I am here because I am. I belong here, whether I want to or not. And with this decor, I can assure you I do _not_.” She smirked. “While I enjoy being bound, this prison isn’t what I would consider a home. A resting place, maybe.” 

This is more than she thought she’d get. “Then you can leave here? Or do they allow you to?”

“At times. When I am completing a kill contract I _have_ to leave, unless they drop the marked one into the compound, or directly into my cell. Food for the spider, a fly thrown into my web. But they watch me, you know. They’re watching even now, I think, but they won’t approach when you’re here.” Her smile grew. “You killed so many of them, so easily. Like little ants. They’re probably scared!” 

She broke out into a laugh that sounded close to a cackle. Watching her closely, Margaret could swear some sort of green fluid was misting at her lips as she laughed. It wasn’t spit. Before she could stop herself, her hand was reaching out to touch it. As if struck by a snake she foolishly wandered too close to, her hand was clamped around her wrist, nails digging into the skin. 

“Curious girl. I can’t let you touch.” Oh, was she-- “Watch, before you try and defy me.”

The woman tapped the concrete with a nail, getting Margaret’s attention. Then, she ran her tongue over her lips, collecting the liquid, and spat _hard_. The impact almost echoed. If she hadn’t been watching, she would have sworn she shot something. The ground sizzled, bubbled, and then dissolved. All was left was a sizeable whole in the floor, which Margaret slipped a finger into once it stopped smoking. It was real. Of course it was, this was Santa Destroy. 

“You’re incredible,” she whispered. She meant it, too. All that destruction, her own body created it. She didn’t need _real_ weapons like her and these other shmucks running around with guns and swords and giant _fucking_ robots. Her cheeks felt hot. Was this admiration? She didn’t exactly know, but it felt like more than appreciation for the strange and unusual. “What is your name?”

“My name? Walsh. They call me Cloe.” Her fingers wiped themselves on her thigh, making the netting of the bodysuit smoke but not break. “You, little bird, are Moonlight. Little beam of light in the dark.”

“Cloe.” Somehow she expected a name like that. That or something she couldn’t even spell, let alone pronounce. “Do you have any more surprises? Abilities?”

“Mm. Maybe something you’d be interested in.” She rose to a crouch, so close to the ledge that a stumble would send her over. Her nails hooked into the back of her bodysuit and pulled, stretching it down over her shoulders and to her waist. “But if you scream, I’ll spit down your pretty, little throat.”

“Got it.” There wasn’t anything that could surprise _her_ of all people when it came to the body at this point, but this being an entity that could kill with her voice and spit acid, she’s sure there could be something. She straightened her back and watched intently, putting her hands in her lap.

Cloe continued pulling down her bodysuit until it fell to her ankles. In a practiced move, she leaned back on her hands and shimmied her thong down her thighs. Spreading her thighs, she motioned for Margaret to come closer with her chin.

“Come, come, Moonlight.” She rose her hips slightly, as if Margaret had a hard time seeing. 

Well, it’s not that she didn’t. She crawled over to Cloe, peering down between her thighs, ignoring the growing hardness between her own. Something was glinting in that dark patch, and it didn’t _exactly_ look like metal. Margaret placed her fingers on her inner thighs and spread her outer lips. As soon as she did, the shine grew, ridges of that same shine peaking out in almost perfect rows at her. She couldn’t help but cringe at the thought of so many piercings, but the thought left her as soon as the rows receded back into the flesh. Feeling with a finger, they had left behind tiny slits. Shallow sockets, almost. When she removed her finger, they shyly inched themselves back out. Ivory spikes, coated in Cloe’s own fluids.

“Is this… Do you have teeth?” Her lower stomach felt as if snakes had taken root there, roiling and twisting over themselves in a familiar warmth. What was happening? 

“Isn’t it grand? I’d love for you to experience it firsthand.” 

Cloe’s eyes narrowed at her, but not in anger. Not disgust? No, she knew that look. She recognized it and promptly fell back, hitting her elbows on the ground to stop from giving herself a concussion. Seeing her in a near vulnerable position, Cloe leaned forward and kicked off the rest of her clothing, leaving her exposed except for the belts and shoes she still wore. Margaret couldn’t even _feel_ any heat off her body, even when she was leaning over her. 

“But… It’s only if _you_ want it, of course.” Her hands slid up Margaret’s thighs, under the frills of her petticoats. “My, my… So many clothes. I will not mind if you reject me.”

“O-Of course I want it!” Rejection wasn’t even in her vocabulary at the moment. “Please…” She was glad no one would ever witness Margaret Moonlight beg. Except for Cloe, but something told her that she wouldn’t leak that to the gossip rags. The thought didn’t stay in her mind for long, replaced by the sensation of Cloe freeing her from her lace and ribbons. Holding her breath, her eyes traveled downwards, met with the image of that taloned hand lining them up and _something_ snaking out of the same cleft Margaret had just examined a few seconds ago. Her entire lower body jerked upwards when she felt it wrap around her shaft. It was wet and thick, but it was able to move as much as Cloe’s own hands.

“My special french kiss! Do you like it?” The siren caught her eye and winked. 

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Margaret wondered if she could die from having too much sex with a woman from another dimension. The rest of her couldn’t wait to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On god, I have been working on this part for Months and am so, so happy to finally be posting it for y'all! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the Big Tiddy Goth GF and Small Tiddy Goth GF's first meeting. Looking back at the NMH2 roster, they seemed like such an obvious choice to pair together. Trans Margaret Moonlight and monster girl Cloe are also favorite headcanons of mine.


	4. thinking life would get better (jeane/sylvia christel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travis and Sylvia's daughter has a bodyguard that isn't too sure about her place here or the family she works for.
> 
> Minor Travis Strikes Again spoilers.

The sea air was barely noticeable in the bedroom, amid the spinning fans, air purifier, humidifier _and_ dehumidifier all on at once. But she felt it, as if it was 11 years ago all over again. There was no mistaking the thick smog, burning toxic fumes and salt that marked it as the air of Santa Destroy, even if the decor of the room suggested otherwise. Though, it was probably best, considering the occupant was a child. In came any reminders of the dirty, dangerous city, out came clean air fit for any growing spawn to breathe safely. It was safe, regulated and reliable. Unlike what else went on in that home.

“— And that’s it for this line, so far. I don’t really think they’ll be making any new figures this quarter, if Mommy is right like always, so I wouldn’t hold your breath —”

Catching that line, she shakes her head and brings herself back to the present. She was sitting guard, under the cover of helping out during a stream recording. If the kid is hungry, bring her food. If she’s thirsty, refill her tumbler with either fresh squeezed orange juice or purified water. No soda, she’s already had enough artificial sugar for the week. A bunch of drivel that were detailed instructions of care for the child that she couldn’t forget if she tried, because it was all drilled into her mind by _her_. The so-called “Mommy” who was anything but motherly, in her more experienced opinion. Rolling her eyes, she caught sight of the digital clock on the nightstand. Break time. She raised a freckled arm and waved a hand in the girl’s peripheral, trying to catch her attention. Thankfully, she didn’t have to get up like earlier and the girl snapped to attention, momentarily glancing at her before turning her attention back to the camera.

“Aaand that’s it for now! I hope you all liked this special stream. Let me know your thoughts down below, but don’t forget to like and subscribe! Bye bye!”

A big smile and wave, and then the stream ended. Camera and rig lights off, stream window closed. The girl sighed, deflating comically in her seat as she did so, regaining the childish behavior a child _should_ have and not the prim and properly casual onscreen persona of a V-Tuber.

“Jesus. They sure killed her, huh?” She comments, rising from her seat to stretch. “Look at little J, she’s all flat! All worn out and they stole allll her bones!” She pokes a few ticklish spots in her sides she’s memorized after months of playing and babysitting.

“No! Tía, no!” The girl squeals between giggles and swatting. 

Sometimes it scares her how similar she looks to a younger version of herself. Playing and laughing, even with brown eyes and a different nose, she can’t mistake the shape of those lidded eyes or the curve of her brows when she’s puzzled. _How did this happen?_ A question that pops up in her mind often, willing her to process how she became a caretaker to her near clone, genetics notwithstanding. 

“Come on, drink your juice and then let’s go do your homework.” She picked her up from her chair as if she weighed nothing, and with her kind of strength she did. “Gotta do that and then maybe we can play.”

“But I don’t _wanna_.” Suddenly, she started to thrash on her grip. Nothing but a fake tantrum, but it didn’t phase her anymore. Too many times it’s been done. Her niece needed a new tactic when her aunt could hold her at arm’s length like a kitten and not a child, all spinning arms and legs.

“Okay, then no playing _ever_ again. No toys, no tía, no _nothing_.” She kept her tone firm, playfulness gone from her voice. If Sylvia had heard her, she would be livid at her “scolding” her daughter. Give her a _break_. These children needed some sort of discipline or they’d end up just like their parents. And that was scary enough of a thought. “Come on, school is important. I’ll help you out and then you’ll be done.”

“Promise?” Her thrashing slowed, but not yet stopped. 

“Promise. I’ll get you something to eat too.” Something from the carefully marked and dated containers with pre-made snacks either the chef or “mommy” herself had made. Not that she couldn’t cook, but it was so much easier having a routine, even as painstakingly planned as this one was.

“Okay!” 

The thrashing turned to excited wiggling and she carried her upside down, to the child’s screaming delight. The kitchen wasn’t that far thankfully, even in the monstrous Townsend mansion, but the kid liked traveling like this. It was different from her mother’s orderly, quiet walking she demanded from her when traveling over the marble floors. All this opulence wasn’t for a child’s home, for somewhere a child could grow up _and_ have fun. But she could at least try to change some of it, as limited as her own reach was here.

As they reached the hall, the sound of a motorcycle engine tearing in from the open windows interrupted her thoughts and made her stop in her tracks. Her legs felt like lead as the girl in her grip perked up at the sound. _Not this. Not now._

“Daddy?” The girl stopped altogether, a small smile forming. “Tía– ”

“I got it.” She forced a smile (pleasant looking, hopefully) onto her lips, righted her onto the floor and straightened out her clothes. “Now go ahead.”

“Thanks!” 

Not even a look was thrown back at her from the girl as she ran out the side door to the veranda. It banged against the wall and stayed open carelessly, even after all those times she had been scolded about opening a door that way. Part of her scolded the child herself mentally and part of her was grateful, so she could watch her at a distance. While the motorcycle sounds dissipated, she snuck closer to the door, getting a look at who had arrived. The slanted scars covering her body felt hot, as if she was being sliced all over again, as she watched her killer take his daughter in his arms. It took control she had honed for years to keep herself rooted to her current spot, keeping herself from running out and snatching the little girl from him. What good would it do for a ghost of his past to run up to Travis Touchdown of all people? 

_A useless guardian that couldn’t even keep a child safe from her shithead, deadbeat father_, Jeane thought. She recounted all those months he had been gone, shortly before she had been hired. If there had been any familial structure, it had been severed as soon as Travis decided he was keeping his family safe by discarding them. Idiot. How could he do that after their childhood? After his own father had been terrible to him, even if not to the extent he had been to _her_.

“Isn’t it nice? He’s home for once.” The French-tinged voice came from behind her.

She jumped. Admittedly, being so lost in her own thoughts, took her off her guard. Some bodyguard.

“...I guess. J’s happy.” Sylvia was an idiot if she thought _she’d_ be _happy_ at this. “Are you two going to… make up?” The mere thought made her gag. Disgusting.

“Oh, no no _no_!” She giggled. “Of course not! That bastard has to earn _any_ making up, if he knows what’s good for his miserable self. Besides, Hunter took him leaving harder than I thought. Poor boy is too sensitive, not like his _idiot_ father.”

“I’m glad you have that much self respect.” Jeane turned her head to look at her, catching sight of some sort of southwestern outfit. And… turquoise jewelry? Cowboy hat? “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“Don’t you like it?” Sylvia twirled. “It’s my outfit for therapy! The helicopter will be here in a few, and it’s just _so_ hot out. I would melt otherwise, you know?” A thought of air-conditioned therapist offices pops into her head to tell her otherwise, but it leaves as soon as Sylvia hooks her arm into Jeane’s. “Come, come! Let’s go to the pool and talk.”

She let Sylvia tug on her arm futilely, her eyes having snapped to Travis talking to his daughter. Watching them laugh before Travis looks up and past her. Searching for someone, telling from his expression. Likely Sylvia, but she can tell he sees something else. Someone else. She’s thankful for the inside of the mansion being so dark during this time of day. Jeane willed herself lighter and let Sylvia drag her to the back.

Sunscreen applied and wearing one of Sylvia’s swimsuit cover-ups (white, transparent and _much_ too small for her frame), she sits at the end of the deck chair Sylvia lounges on. The breeze back there makes the heat more tolerable, but she only felt cold. She was sure her skin was clammy when Sylvia sat up and wrapped her arms around her.

“Why are you so tense?” As if being tense wasn’t a state of being for the former assassin. “_Nothing_ will happen to you, you silly girl! I promise.” Her lips found her neck and pressed kisses there while she felt her pulse beat wildly. Being found with Travis Touchdown’s likely soon-to-be ex wife was the least of her worries, but she knew it could only add to any anger that would surface.

“I’m worried for J.” A half-truth, though she didn’t specify why as she leaned back against Sylvia’s smaller frame. 

“Jeane Jr. will be fine. She’s seen her father, now she can be satisfied until whenever she sees him next.” The name stung somehow. “Maybe he’ll even stay a few days to see Hunter.”

“And then how would you explain this to him?” She turned to her, unsure whether to feel angry or not. Scared? “Us? He’s not _that_ much of an idiot to not recognize me.”

Sylvia’s smirk made something flare up in her. “You’d be surprised. You’re off his radar like so many others, and a man going through a midlife crisis only has himself on his mind. You’re as safe as can be, even in plain sight.”

A yell interrupted them, a familiar voice calling, “Yo, Sylvia! Where are you?”

“Speak of the killing maniac, hm?” The blonde sighs and plants a kiss on Jeane’s lips before rising. “We’ll finish this conversation later.” She shielded her eyes against the sun before stepping off the veranda. “Back here!”

Jeane settled back in the lounge chair, quickly using a nearby towel to cover her hair. That’s probably the most recognizable part about her, isn’t it? Willing her nerves to calm, she watches Travis appear around from the corner to approach Sylvia by the pool. Even at that distance, she could see he was older. More tired? Scarred at least, and his sunglasses weren’t doing him any favors. But Sylvia was right. He didn’t have eyes from anyone but his wife while they talked. No taking in his surroundings, no spotting this stranger at his family’s current home. What kind of assassin is he?

It’s almost boring, if not for the possible danger she anticipates, watching two married people talk. Complimenting his wife, no doubt, and catching up. Probably something more personal, judging from how Sylvia’s expression changes. It felt like she shouldn’t be here. Just when she rose to go inside, the helicopter arrived. The wind beating off its blade nearly threw back her towel, but she held strong. Travis looked back at the house, likely wondering if their child was cared for while she was gone, but she doubted he even saw her. She was almost grateful when Sylvia grabbed hold of the helicopter’s ladder and ended their conversation.

“Tía?” 

She turned to the girl. _Jeane_. “Yes, Jeane?” 

“Can you give me my snack now?” She looked a little tired, her gaze drifting to her father in the distance.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone jump the fence and run to Travis. _Not this again._ Always danger when it came to him, even around his own children. “Let’s go inside, okay? It’s too hot out here.” Jeane got up, letting the towel fall behind her. 

She placed her hands on the girl’s shoulders and steered her into the air conditioned mansion. Before she closed the door, the words _Let’s get fucking crazy!_ echoed in the air along with the sound of a beam katana being unsheathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With all the new NMH3 news, I thought it was time to finish this chapter. This takes place during the Bubblegum Fatale DLC's Travis Strikes Back section, the day Travis gets to the mansion to see Sylvia and Jeane Jr. 
> 
> I was partly inspired by murakumounits' Sylvia/Jeane bodyguard AU, I love it so much. Everyone who likes gay NMH girls should read when you can!


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